


Heavy Is The Crown

by zoyasdragon



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Blood and Injury, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Depression, Developing Friendships, Heavy Angst, Loss, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Political Alliances, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, R Plus L Does Not Equal J, Sad Daenerys, Sleep Deprivation, Tags May Change, Tired Daenerys, and people loving and defending daenerys because she is not her father, because she has done nothing wrong ever in her life, daenerys needs love, missandei being daenerys' emotional support system, missandei being the best friend anyone could ask for, ned stark and his family and olenna and her family see that and deliver, please someone give this child a hug she needs it, rhaegar wins and daenerys inherits the throne, she's baby and i would die for her, tags to be added but expect politics, the author needs sleep and a hug and SHE'S GETTING NEITHER, they give her all the hugs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22901536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoyasdragon/pseuds/zoyasdragon
Summary: Jon Stark -formerly Snow- didn't think he and his family would get an invitation to the Queen's Ball. He would have thought the Targaryen grudge to be much more powerful, and much more resilient.But there they were, in King's Landing, to attend Her Majesty's Half-Year Ball, the half-year anniversary of the end of the war.The half-year anniversary of her family's death.Everything seemed to be going surprisingly, suspiciously well until the facade broke, chipped a fraction, showing Jon the true extent of the shadows under the Queen's eyes.-"What can I do?""Love her, Jon Stark. She needs it."{{Full summary inside}}
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 91
Kudos: 169





	1. Weariness, I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> weariness
> 
> /ˈwɪərɪnɪs/
> 
> noun
> 
> Extreme tiredness; fatigue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SUMMARY**   
>  _His Grace Prince Rhaegar Targaryen gave his life for his family on the trident, but not before securing the win for House Targaryen._
> 
> _Robert dead and his allies defeated and humiliated, House Targaryen rose from the ashes and ascended to the throne once more, with its last member, Daenerys Stormborn._
> 
> _Queen Daenerys did a wonderful job, no one could deny it, but her state of mind worried her dear friend and advisor, Missandei. Death, tragedy, sins, and mistakes weighed heavily on the Queen's conscience. Too heavily. How long could she keep going, with so little sleep and so many demons in her head?_
> 
> -
> 
> _Jon Stark -formerly Snow- didn't think he and his family would get an invitation to the Queen's Ball. He would have thought the Targaryen grudge to be much more powerful, and much more resilient._
> 
> _But there they were, in King's Landing, to attend Her Majesty's Half-Year Ball, the half-year anniversary of the end of the war._
> 
> _The half-year anniversary of her family's death._
> 
> _Everything seemed to be going surprisingly, suspiciously well until the facade broke, chipped a fraction, showing Jon the true extent of the shadows under the Queen's eyes._
> 
> -
> 
> _"What can I do?"_
> 
> _"Love her, Jon Stark. She needs it."_
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~
> 
> Rhaegar won but the Targaryens still died, leaving Daenerys and Viserys behind. Aged-up characters, for those who were wondering. I do realize Dany was a newborn during the rebellion, but for fiction's sake, let's ignore that.
> 
> Jon is the bastard of Lyanna Stark, who died of childbirth. He is NOT the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. Ned brought him in and raised him a Stark, and demanded from Aerys that he be legitimized when Jon was 6. Jon is NOT hated by Catelyn, because he is not Ned's bastard.
> 
> The Rebellion happened mainly because of two things: Robert's thirst for power and Aerys' madness. People wanted to yeet Aerys off the throne, and Robert wanted the throne. No Lyanna/Rhaegar escapades. I want Dorne and the Martells to be present in here, and insulting them by having Rhaegar cheat on Elia is just mean, and would kill my plot.
> 
> without further ado, chapter one...
> 
> in which i project all my fatigue on a character who didn't ask for anything.

Daenerys hadn’t looked up from her paperwork in maybe five hours. Missandei was starting to get worried for her.

She had never seen her friend in such a state before. Sure, she had been overworked and exhausted. One could even say that those things are such a constant, they could as well be called part of the Queen’s personality.

But this… this shadow that had taken over her, and had settled beneath her eyes and in her heart, was not only worrying Missandei, it was also frightening her.

Daenerys was hardworking. She could remember it being one of the first thoughts she had had about her, when she was first introduced to the then-Princess.

King Aerys Targaryen had bought Missandei from a slaver, during one of his travels to Essos. He had saved her, granted her freedom, and brought her back to Westeros with him, intending on giving her a job as his daughter’s handmaiden. Missandei didn’t have such a good grasp on monarchies, titles and royalty back then, but she knew that being a handmaiden to the Princess was a big deal, not something offered so easily, much less to a foreign slave girl.

But the King had been gentle, and kind. He had assured her that her job was less being a servant, and more being a friend to his daughter, who didn’t have anyone to connect with.

The first time Missandei saw the Princess, she had been struck by how beautiful she was. The former slave had been standing next to the King, in a vast courtyard, outside of the big, red castle the King had called ‘The Red Keep’. The Princess had been learning sword-fighting, with a Knight named Ser Mormont.

Ser Mormont was looking rather guilty, Missandei had noticed, and it was probably because he had knocked the princess to the ground with a bit more force than necessary. The girl had merely groaned, and stood up again, not bothering to wipe her dusty clothing. A bit of blood was trailing along her temple, but her tight jaw, and the fire in her eyes, had prevented Ser Mormont from asking her if she needed a break.

Missandei had been in awe of how strong she was. How fierce and determined she was. She would not take no for answer, would not stop, would not rest until she got a specific move right.

Headstrong. Hardworking. Yes, those qualities had defined her Highness Daenerys Targaryen perfectly.

Looking at her friend now, having been promoted to advisor, — “I don’t need handmaidens,” the Queen had sighed one day. “I need a friend I can trust to not let me stray from the right path.” — Missandei thought those qualities still applied perfectly.

Adding to them stressed-out, and worn-out.

Missandei thought it was unfair how all of this was dumped on her friend, in such a merciless manner. She was never raised to rule. She was the youngest of three, and her eldest brother already had children of his own, children that Daenerys adored. She was never meant to take the throne. Yet, unfortunate circumstances had taken her family from her, along with her freedom, giving her a claim instead, at the young age of 21.

“Unfortunate circumstances?” The Queen had barked once, a sound that resembled laughter slipping from her lips. “Call it was it was, my dearest Missandei. Call it treason, treachery. Call it an injustice. Call it what it was.”

Injustice, it was. Missandei knew the Queen was not talking about her father, for his death was deserved, but her brother and mother, instead. Her good sister, Elia Martell, who was raped then killed. Her niece and nephew, also brutally killed. All because of the late King’s madness.

Fortunately, the rebellion was squashed by their trusted allies, who still believed in the might of the Targaryen family, and in the potential of its heirs. The burden of the crown fell upon the shoulders of her older brother, Viserys.

The sorrowful happenings did not stop there, however. Her brother, too shaken by the acts of war, and by the death of his family, had tried committing suicide not a day after the war had officially ended. He was therefore named too unstable to inherit the throne, and it fell onto Daenerys instead.

What a chain of events. Cruel and unfair, yet resulted in Daenerys ascending to the throne, and making up for all her father’s misdeeds. She was a worthy queen, and she mended the cracks and crevices that were appearing on the seemingly unmarred surface of the Seven Kingdoms, threatening their cohesiveness and unity under the crown.

Now that Missandei thought about it, it has been six months since the war ended, and Daenerys was crowned, yet her friend treated the events like they had never happened. Her coronation was a small thing, after she insisted they did not have the time, or the luxury, of waiting until everyone was present and able to attend a grand ceremony. She had to get to work as soon as possible, punishing traitors, rewarding allies, and protecting and helping innocents who were caught in the crossfire.

She spent months adjusting the budget, relocating families, building shelters for orphans, giving judgment upon the traitors, tallying the number of people that had sadly become collateral damage. As the numbers grew, so did the weariness of her friend. Day after day, the darkness under her eyes deepened, her lively movements slowed by fatigue, her training and sparring halted indefinitely.

She was not herself anymore, but a walking crown, obsessing over budgets and military.

“Daenerys.”

The Queen hummed, distracted. Her eyes were still glued on the paper she was reading. She frowned, and read it again, before providing additions, and crossing off sections with her quill, and adding it to one of the numerous piles on her desk. How she kept track, Missandei didn’t know.

“Daenerys,” Missandei insisted.

“Yes, dear.”

“Take a break.”

The Queen looked up from her papers, for the first time in hours. “You know I can’t do that, Missandei.”

Missandei sighed, and stood up, going to plant herself behind her friend. She started massaging her shoulders slowly, and Daenerys let out a pained moan.

“You’re tenser than I’ve ever seen you,” Missandei whispered, her movements halting suddenly when Daenerys took in a sharp breath. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, go on.” The movements resumed. “The Starks are going to make an appearance, at the Half-Year anniversary.”

Her friend was referencing the ball she was coerced into throwing, to celebrate the end of a long war, and to finally meet —and charm, probably— the lords and ladies from the different parts of the Seven Kingdoms.

A ball to celebrate the death of her entire family, yet necessary to show the people that the Crown still stood, even in the face of adversity and war. A _tour de force_ for House Targaryen, to scare off any potential rebellions that may arise. They needed to see that what remained of them was as strong as the ones decimated.

They needed to see the Ivory Queen.

“The Starks?” As if the party wasn’t going to be hard enough on her friend.

The Starks were allies of the Rebellious Robert Baratheon. Ned Stark had stood by his friend’s side as they warred against the Mad King, and had planned on staying by his side until the Crown Prince Rhaegar either waved a white flag or died.

But, apparently, Robert had other plans for the royal family. He would take the throne, yes, but he would also kill every last one of the “silver-haired cunts”, as the reports had claimed.

Ned Stark could not stand behind such actions and decided to sit out the rest of the war on the sidelines.

Fortunately, he did not have to watch the plans put in motion, as his friend never won the Rebellion, dying at the hand of Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident, instead.

The Crown Prince later died of his injuries, but not before naming his youngest brother his heir. His own son was not an option anymore since he was killed by an assassin, along with his sister, and mother, while Rhaegar was fighting against Robert. The same assassin also killed Rhaella Targaryen, who had tried to defend Elia and the children.

“The ones and only,” Daenerys mumbled, as she finally put her quill down, settling back into her chair, and letting Missandei untie the knotted muscles of her shoulders.

“All of them?”

Daenerys closed her eyes, massaging the bridge of her nose. If getting her to complain about the Ball was all that Missandei needed to do to get her to take a break, she would’ve done it about three weeks ago.

“All of them. They’re getting their own set of apartments, in the east wing,” Daenerys rambled, her eyes staying closed. Her hand dropped to clasp at her other, picking at her cuticles.

Missandei tutted, and Daenerys’ hands froze. She didn’t stop her tired rambling, though.

“Lord Ned and his wife, Catelyn Tully, along with the heir Robb Stark, the sons, Jon, Bran, and Rickon Stark, as well as the daughters, Arya and Sansa Stark. I shudder every time I think about it. All of them, here. Guests in the home of the people they helped—” she stopped herself at the last second, and all the sadness and anger Missandei could see on her face disappeared, yanked back by their chain, and into the prison of her mind.

“Murder?” Missandei supplied helpfully, knowing fully well the Queen would never utter the word herself. The brunette did not want the conversation to stop. That was the most she had gotten the Queen to talk, in the past few weeks, about something other than papers and budgets.

It was sad that _this_ was the subject that had to be discussed, but Missandei was relieved to see that the Queen was not mad at her, or displeased with something she had done, as she had begun to suspect and fear a few days ago.

“Yes, indeed.” Daenerys fell silent, and Missandei stopped her ministrations, going to kneel next to her Queen, and friend, instead.

“Daenerys,” she whispered, putting a hand on the other woman’s knee, trying to coax her into opening her eyes.

_Look at me. Look at me with eyes that aren’t dead. You’re not dead. You’re not like them. Why do I feel like you are?_

Daenerys sighed, and opened her eyes, looking at Missandei with nothing but fatigue.

“If you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to,” she said with no conviction.

She knew that the Ball was a must, that the Hand and the small council —comprised at the moment of Jon Connington, hand to her late father, Ser Barristan Selmy, the captain of her Queensguard, Ser Lewyn Martell, and Missandei— had been adamant, and that the invitations had already been sent out.

There was absolutely no going back now.

However, she was at a complete loss as to how to comfort her Dany.

_Though she hasn’t been my Dany in a while, now, has she?_

A mirthless laugh escaped the Queen’s lips. “Dearest Missandei, I appreciate the kindness. Though, I have no time for it,” _or energy_ , was left out. “Let us continue, now, shall we?”

Missandei nodded, words stuck in her throat.

“I have a speech to prepare,” Daenerys muttered softly to herself, or to Missandei, though if it was indeed directed to her, Missandei had no idea. “And a small council to assemble. I cannot rely on the shambles of a council that I have been left with. You, excluded, of course, Missy.”

Missandei smiled at the old nickname, remembering lighter, better times fondly. Times when her best friend did not wake up screaming in the middle of the night nearly every single day, and when she wasn’t a shell of herself, haunted by tragedies, sins, and mistakes.

“This Ball will be the best time to forge lasting alliances,” she continued, louder, and more assured. Missandei almost cracked a smile. Daenerys sounded the most like her old self when she ruled. Missandei didn’t know if that was a bad or a good thing.

“The Martells are a good place to start,” Missandei supplied helpfully.

The Martells were indeed the best pick, seeing as the Targaryens and they were practically family, Elia’s death not changing the relations and friendships that had blossomed between the members.

Oberyn Martell was a favorite of Her Majesty, and Missandei could understand why. Charming, sweet, doting, and as funny as they come, he had always harbored a not-so-secret soft-spot for Daenerys. He would be a good stepping stone into the larger pool of sharks that were the Noble Houses of Westeros.

Daenerys smiled, small but there. “They are indeed. I was thinking of giving Oberyn a seat on the council, though I’m unsure. I haven’t spoken to him since before… everything. I don’t know how he will react to me. Who knows, maybe he hates me, now.”

The hints of self-hatred did not escape Missandei, but she chose not to comment, not now, that they were making such good progress.

Daenerys, talking, a small smile, looking and sounding more alive than she had been for a while.

_Come back, Daenerys, I beg you._

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” Missandei reassured, softly, putting her hand on Daenerys’ and squeezing lightly.

She could feel it spasm in her grasp, Daenerys’ instinct to withdraw, warring with her love for Missandei, and her need for comfort.

_It is worse than I thought._

Daenerys had never been a shy person, and though she was not strictly physical, for she had a gift for words only a few could boast of having, she was also not shy about expressing her feelings through touch.

Holding Missandei’s hand, hugging her brothers, and her dear bear, Ser Jorah Mormont, and kissing her mother’s cheek.

Now that Missandei thought of it, when was the last time she had seen Daenerys touch another human being?

Heart constricting at the revelation, she forced her face not to morph into the sadness that was spilling inside her, focusing instead on the methodical planning that needed to be done.

She didn’t withdraw her hand, however. Daenerys did it for her.

With a wince, disguised as a very bad attempt at a smile, Daenerys all but yanked her hand back, dropping it in her lap, no doubt fiddling with them and maiming them behind her desk, where Missandei couldn’t see, like she had developed the habit of doing, lately.

Sometimes they got so mangled, her handmaidens would force her to wear gloves.

Missandei shuddered at the thought.

If she was capable of inflicting such pain upon herself…

_No, that line of thought is dangerous. That line of thought questions the integrity of the Queen’s mind, and her ability and fitness to do her job. That line of thinking borders on treason._

“Now, onto that speech. How shall I make the Lords and Ladies fall in love with my charm and charisma when my father has most probably killed someone close to them, at some point in the past?” She had meant it as a lighthearted joke, but it sounded off, like fake laughter or a bone breaking.

Missandei chuckled nervously, not entirely sure how to respond to that when the doors to the study burst open unceremoniously, and a servant —Viserys’ handmaiden, Missandei recognized her as, barged inside, panting, her eyes wild.

“Your Majesty, it’s your brother.”

Daenerys stood up so fast, her chair skidded behind her, almost falling, and in a flourish of black fabric, the Queen had disappeared through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it.
> 
> leave a comment if you did, i would love feedback
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/acropclis) here
> 
> see ya


	2. Panic, II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Panic
> 
> /ˈpanɪk/
> 
> noun
> 
> Sudden uncontrollable fear or anxiety, often causing wildly unthinking behavior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which dany NEEDS A HUG and missandei gives her one :)
> 
> TW: panic attack

Daenerys bolted out of the room, half-turning towards Viserys’ handmaiden, an older, kindly woman named Vaena.

“Where?”

“Your Majesty…”

Daenerys stopped, turning fully to look the woman in the eye. “Vaena. _Where?”_

“The Hall of Art.”

Daenerys’ breath hitched, and she disappeared, turning a corner so fast, Missandei barely caught her.

They ran for what felt like hours, the Red Keep too big of a place to _live_ , Missandei decided. Definitely not home material.

Her friend did not stop, however, taking the stairs three at a time, attracting the attention, certainly unwanted, of most servants and guards they passed on the way there.

Missandei sighed inwardly. More gossip. As if Daenerys needed more problems, at the moment.

They finally entered the infamous hallway, Missandei’s chest heaving. It had been a while since she had run that fast.

The Queen seemed unbothered by the sudden, prolonged effort. She was looking up in horror in front of her, and Missandei barely dared to follow her eyes.

Upon the wall should have been a portrait of the departed Queen Mother Rhaella Targaryen. It should have been a masterpiece, wonderfully capturing the beauty and grace of the Late Queen.

“No,” the word softly escaped her friend’s lips, her voice cracking slightly under the pressure of the sight in front of her.

The portrait was ripped to shreds. Streaks of blood dragged along the rips and tears in the portrait, hinting at someone ruining their fingers and nails to destroy the artwork. It marred the now uneven surface, Rhaella’s face not even distinguishable anymore. It was ruined, most probably beyond repair.

It was the only picture Daenerys had left of her mother. Missandei knew that when the Queen felt especially hopeless, she would come here and stare at the portrait for hours, drawing strength from her Mother’s loving gaze, and her soft smile.

No more.

“I’m so sorry, your Grace,” Vaena whispered, and Missandei could detect hints of fear in her voice.

She blistered at the thought. They feared her. Everything she did for them, the sleepless nights, the countless hours spent in her office, working until her hands cramped up and could hold her quill anymore. All the guilt and the crippling fear of becoming like her father, of being hated like him. The rebuilding of King’s Landing, the rekindling of trade, the streets no longer filled with poor masses looking for coin.

All of that, and they still feared her.

Daenerys bit her lip and took a shuddering breath.

_Daenerys, please, I’m begging you. Please, cry._

But, she didn’t, like always. She steeled herself and turned towards the servant, who shrunk slightly under her gaze.

_No wonder they’re terrified of her. Who wouldn’t be terrified of someone who hasn’t shed a tear over their family’s death?_

“Tell me what happened,” she asked, resolute, the agony in her voice unheard by anyone but Missandei.

“Prince Viserys, he— your Grace, I swear I didn’t… One minute he was right there, and I was drawing him a bath, and the second he was _gone_. And, I thought, he couldn’t have wandered far, now, could he? And— And I know, I know,” she rambled, her voice trembling more and more with each word uttered, “I know you said we were to keep him from coming here—”

“And yet,” Daenerys deadpanned, her eyes dull, gesturing to the ruined portrait.

“I apologize, your Grace, please— I, I didn’t—”

The Queen held up a hand, and Vaena immediately fell silent.

Daenerys turned to look at the portrait one last time—

And almost slipped.

She caught herself at the last second, her eyes narrowing in confusion.

“What—” her words caught in her throat, as she looked at her feet, her eyes widening in fear.

“Is… Is that—”

“Blood,” Missandei breathed, feeling panic settle in her chest.

The Queen looked just about ready to collapse, training frantic eyes onto Vaena, who looked like she would rather be anywhere but there.

“I understand the blood on the canvas, Vaena, but why,” the Queen took a deep breath, trying to stabilize her voice, but Missandei could hear a breakdown coming. “Why is there a puddle of it on the ground?”

Vaena fiddled with her apron, as the smell finally caught on to the two young women.

Daenerys paled considerably, which was a feat, since she already looked of the dead, and Missandei felt bile rise to her throat.

“The guards saw his Highness, and tried to… They tried to stop him,” Vaena muttered, eying the Queen, terrified.

“Did they—” Missandei began, before she was interrupted by her friend.

“Is he dead?” Daenerys all but growled at the woman, who took a step back.

“ANSWER ME. DID THEY KILL HIM?”

“Daenerys,” Missandei interjected, putting a hand on her friend’s shoulder.

She jumped back, eying Missandei’s hand with disgust.

_Well, that didn’t sting at all._

“No! No, I swear! He’s in his room, he was just injured—”

“Leave.”

Vaena gulped, and looked to her right. She was trying to find a way to escape, Missandei realized, should Daenerys have the urge to kill her.

“I SAID, _LEAVE_.”

That was all the woman needed to all but run for her life.

Daenerys and Missandei were left alone in the hallway.

Missandei breathed a sigh of relief. She did not doubt the fairness of her Queen, but she also did not doubt the sorrow of her friend.

She truly did not know what Daenerys would have done to that woman.

She turned towards her, wanting to try to offer some form of comfort, but her heart dropped at the sight of her.

Daenerys was staring at nothing in front of her, eyes wide and wild, her breathing becoming shallower by the second.

_No, no, not now._

“Daenerys.” Missandei ran up to her, putting her hands on her shoulders, shaking her slightly. “Daenerys, come back.”

Daenerys didn’t listen or didn’t hear her, Missandei didn’t know. Her eyes were still unfocused, her shaking hands coming up to grip her hair.

“Dany,” Missandei tried again, her own panic growing.

This was not the first time something like that had happened to the Queen, but never outside her bedchambers. Not in a public place, where anyone could see her. Could see her weakness.

Missandei knew that Daenerys would never forgive her if she didn’t snap her out of it and _fast_.

Daenerys fell to her knees, narrowly missing the puddle of blood, thankfully. At least her dress wasn’t ruined, Missandei thought, amidst the chaos of terror that was storming her mind. Small blessings.

Her arms encircled her friend, gripping her as tightly as she could, rocking them back and forth.

_Come back, Daenerys. Please, where did you go?_

“Dany, please,” she whispered, squeezing her even tighter, and she felt her startle in her arms.

She was back.

Daenerys took a shuddering breath, detaching herself from Missandei slowly, her eyes bloodshot, her hands finally leaving her hair.

_Why are you intent on not crying, Dany? You’re killing yourself._

“I’m fine,” she whispered, going to stand up, but wobbling slightly on her feet.

Missandei caught her at the last second, steadying her, and guided her towards Viserys’ bedroom with a hand on her arm.

_Like the seven hells, you’re fine._

_—_

Daenerys didn’t know what had happened to her. One second she was awake, anger coursing through her veins at the incompetence of her staff, and the next her mind had shut down, her blood turning into ice, freezing her thoughts.

She physically felt the world stop in front of her.

She could hear her heartbeat hammering her ears, her blood rushing through her veins, but her breathing would not resume. The next breath would _not come_. She _couldn’t breathe_ , and Missandei’s voice was ringing like static in her ears. She tried to look at her friend, to see her beautiful, calming face, but her eyes wouldn’t _work, they weren’t working, it was all dark, dark, she couldn’t see, she was blind, and her next breath still wouldn’t come, and Missandei was in her ears and her blood was cold and her heart was beating faster and faster yet slower and slower and—_

“Dany, please.”

Air finally rushed back into her lungs, through a deep, shuddering breath.

She gasped for air, her hand coming down from her hair to grip her chest.

The fact that she probably looked as insane as her father flitted through her mind for a second, but she quickly swallowed it down. She had just come back, she didn’t want to plunge back into that freezing pool of… unnamed emotion. Daenerys refused to name it. 

Yet, a voice whispered in her mind, taunting. _Madness._

Missandei helped her to her feet, Daenerys barely registering her hand on her arm, steadying, as she muttered an “I’m fine”.

Like the seven hells, she was fine.

But she had more important things to worry about.

_Vissy._

“I need to see him,” she gritted out, and Missandei turned her beautiful, soft eyes on her.

Daenerys felt her heart constrict, and her cheeks burn in shame.

_Pity, that is all you can feel for me these days, my Dearest Missy, isn’t it._

“Come on,” her friend whispered, and they both walked, slowly but surely, through that cursed hallway, and towards Viserys’ chambers.

Daenerys finally let the sadness engulf her.

The last picture she had of her mother.

_How long before I forget what she looked like? How long before her face morphs into my mind, her features distorted and unrecognizable?_

She briefly wondered if anyone noticed her… episode, in the hall. She felt the iciness creeping back up through her veins.

_No, no, don’t think about that._

That was truly the last thing she needed. People seeing her and deeming her as mad as her father.

She wasn’t.

She wasn’t.

She truly wasn’t.

… Right?

_Don’t kid yourself, Daenerys, you just had a breakdown in the hallway. You could have strangled poor Vaena with your bare hands._

_Yours is a madness hidden. But it is a madness nonetheless. **You’re worse than your father.**_

Her next breath was strangled, tears long-held stinging her eyes, begging for release. Her head throbbed, the tension behind her eyes giving her an intense headache.

_I cannot cry._

_I have a legacy to carry._

They finally arrived in front of Viserys’ bedroom.

The door was closed and the atmosphere calm and silent, with the occasional chirp of a bird. The outside light filtered in through the gigantic windows, adorning the wall opposite of the door, warming the chilly halls of the keep. It was a beautiful spring day.

One could almost be fooled into thinking that everything was fine.

The only thing marring the scene were the servants gathered in the hallway, scattered into small groups, talking and laughing between them, pretending to work. They were probably there to catch a glimpse of the Queen, to see what she would do with her mad brother.

Daenerys’ hand tightened into a fist, her teeth grit.

She elected to ignore them. If they wanted to see the Queen, then they shall. She squared her shoulders, shaking Missandei’s hand off gently, not before giving it a small squeeze of gratitude, and approached the bedroom door.

The servants had glittering eyes, as they watched the scene unfold, full of gossip and curiosity.

They all knew the Prince was… not himself. Not anymore.

They were truly curious to see what the Queen’s reaction would be. They were pretending to scrub at the floor and wipe the windows, but they knew the Queen was no fool, she knew they were watching her.

She raised her hand, her hesitation visible to no one but her friend, and knocked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if this was shorter than chapter 1, but I felt like it was the best time to end it. the interaction with Vissy is going to be a heavy one, and I thought I'd leave it to the next chapter. also, fear not, Jon will make an appearance in the next chapter, probably, or the one after it :)
> 
> PSA: GUYS I NEED A BETA ASAP. if you're interested please contact me, I'll be forever grateful, and you'll get the chapters in advance ;)
> 
> contact me: tumblr [here](https://acropclis.tumblr.com/) and twitter [here](https://twitter.com/acropclis)
> 
> thanks for all the love on chapter 1, I did not expect all that :( keep the feedback coming, it fuels my muse!
> 
> see ya


	3. Resignation, III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resignation
> 
> /rɛzɪɡˈneɪʃ(ə)n/
> 
> noun
> 
> The acceptance of something undesirable but inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which i'm almost 70% sure there are no plotholes but only 70% because it's 3:30 am and i'm going to pass out any second now.
> 
> ps: i'm still in dire need of a beta, please, if anyone feels up to it.
> 
> TW: survivor's guilt, thoughts of death.
> 
> edit: literally just noticed how short this chapter is lmao sorry about that. continuation is tomorrow for sure.

Her knock was met with silence.

Daenerys waited a few seconds, her heart beating wildly in her chest.

_I can’t lose someone else._

She knocked again, and this time, she was met with a groan.

Daenerys’ shoulders sagged in relief, and she opened the door slowly, peeking inside, not wanting to startle her brother.

She saw him sitting on a chair next to the window, looking outside.

He seemed calm enough, she thought. Too calm.

Her brother never truly recovered from the death of their family. He loved their mother and was very attached to their older brother, and their deaths had changed him fundamentally. He was not the same person afterward.

Daenerys used to think that her Vissy had died with them.

He was distant most of the time. Not present, at least not fully. Barely answered to his name, barely ate, barely slept. He just stared into the fire that burned continuously in his fireplace. If it was too hot for a fire, he would stare out of the window.

He would stare. And stare, and stare. That was all she had left of her brother.

All she had left of her family.

“Vissy?” She asked tentatively, approaching where he sat.

He had had violent episodes before —the now ruined portrait of her mother being proof of that— but she trusted him. She knew he would never touch a hair on her head.

Her Vissy had taught her how to play chess when they were children. He had taught her a few sword fighting tricks that Rhaegar had immediately admonished, saying they were dishonorable. Dany had used them a couple of times on him afterward, and they had worked each time, leading Dany to wonder if they were truly dishonorable, or if Rhaegar just didn’t know how to counter them.

Her eldest brother had just huffed at her jab, ruffled her hair, and told her she’ll never become a better swordsman than him. She knew he was joking, because a few seconds later, he had lifted her in the air, and thrown her into the courtyard fountain.

_“RHAE!” she spluttered, sitting up in the fountain, glaring at him with all her might. “You’re such a sore loser.”_

_He laughed, crossing his arms on his chest. “How am I the loser if you’re the one sitting in a fountain?”_

_“Rhae, leave her alone,” Vissy tutted, coughing to hide a chuckle. “The fountain is a place for fish. Our dear sister is a duck, at least.”_

_Daenerys rolled her eyes, laughter bubbling on her lips. “I hate both of you.”_

“Vissy,” she tried again, putting a hand on his shoulder, and shaking him gently.

He turned to her, his eyes more lucid than usual. For a second, she thought she was staring at the past.

Like he was his old self again.

He looked at her, a flicker of something unrecognizable in his eyes.

Daenerys smiled softly, ruffling his hair like their mother used to do.

“Vissy, why did you do that?” she asked, more to herself than him. She knew he wasn’t going to answer, but every time she thought about the portrait, her chest would feel tight, and her eyes would burn.

_Her body was desperate to cry._

Viserys blinked up at her, tilting his head in confusion.

“Mother?” he whispered, his eyes widening.

_A stab to the chest would’ve been less painful._

She winced, stopping her gentle touches on his hair. How could she let herself _hope_? Hope that he could recover and become himself again? How could she be so _stupid_?

Resignation settled like a weight on her chest. “No, Vissy, it’s me. It’s Dany,” she tried, her voice as gentle as she could manage.

He stared up at her some more, his browns knotting into a frown.

“Mother?” he asked again, and Daenerys gulped, a tightness forming in her throat. “Why did you leave us, mother?”

Daenerys choked back a sob, her hand going up to her mouth to stifle the sound.

She knew the servants were most likely eavesdropping, at the door. Missy, too.

She felt something wet drop on her hand. Tears. She bit on her lip, trying as hard as she could to swallow them down, but they wouldn’t stop coming. They were flowing down her cheeks, and she could almost feel them leave visible marks behind. Marks of her shame, of her weakness, of how she couldn’t keep it together for one _damn moment_.

_He needs me, for the Seven’s sake. He needs me, and all I can do is cry. I’m useless._

The tears didn’t even feel like the release she needed. They hurt more than they relieved.

“Viserys, I’m…” she took a breath, composed herself. “I’m not her. I’m not Mother.”

Viserys looked at her, silent, a twinge of disappointment visible on his face.

“Pity that,” he whispered, with startling lucidity.

Daenerys flinched, taking a step backward.

Her brother returned back to his staring, like she wasn’t there anymore. Well, maybe for him, she wasn’t.

_Pity that._

Daenerys would be a liar if she said she didn’t think about death often. Specifically, her own death. How she should’ve died with the rest of her family.

Maybe if her mother was still alive, then Vissy wouldn’t have… broken down, like he did. Maybe he would have been a good king. He would have made a better king than her. She would’ve died with her good sister Elia, and the children. She would have been mourned, maybe for a month or two, then she would have been forgotten, merely a footnote in history— probably not even that.

And she would have been content with that.

She would have liked that.

It would have been better than the hell she was living in.

Drained of all the adrenaline terror had installed in her, she sat down on Viserys’ bed, looking at the back of his head.

He was her favorite brother, before. Rhaegar was more a father figure to her than a brother, especially after Aerys fell into his madness.

Aerys was a good father, once. Daenerys wished she could say the only memories she had left of him were good, but they weren’t. She remembered every bad, and had but a vague outline of the good.

Pity. She would’ve liked to remember her father as the decent man he was, before… Before.

His smiling face drew itself in her head like a barely formed sketch, like half a dream she had summers ago, in another lifetime. He introduced her to Missandei, a small, frail thing he rescued during his travels to Essos, his pride in the girl visible as he told Daenerys that she could speak a multitude of languages flawlessly, that maybe she could even teach her some.

Daenerys had been somewhat insulted that her father felt the need to _buy_ her a friend. She could make friends, she had huffed silently, in the confines of her bedroom, while she was relaxing in a scalding hot bath.

She could make friends.

She _could_.

A lie.

Lying to herself was a thing she did often. To shield herself from the pain, from the rejection, from the loneliness.

If she were to be honest with herself, she would think about how most of the castle staff whispered as she passed by. How they thought her ‘a bitch’, ‘stuck-up’, and how she had ‘a little of the devil in her.’

Frankly, all Daenerys had was her knowledge and those sparring lessons with Ser Jorah. She neither had a devil in her, nor a stick up her arse, as some would whisper even softer, in fear of being heard, and punished for speaking ill of the princess.

A pause. Trying to stop her thoughts was near impossible.

She tried listening, to see if people were talking behind the bedroom door.

Spying on her.

All she heard was silence.

She exhaled slowly, a sense of safety mixed with despair enveloping her like a blanket, and laid down on the bed.

They thought she was talking to her mad brother. It couldn’t hurt to lay down a bit, and take a break, right? She couldn’t remember the last time she actually slept.

It was probably six months ago. Before the war.

The near-extinction of the Targaryens, they called it.

 _Near_ extinction. Because she was still alive.

_Why was she still alive?_

She felt her eyelids getting heavy, the emotional toll of… _everything_ , finally doing her in. The bed was comfortable, the sunlight streaming in through the balcony made the atmosphere warm and cozy.

She let sleep take her because Seven knew, she needed it.

She slept, letting it sweep her pain away, mute it under static and burry it in her subconscious.

The nightmares began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all, hope you liked this. 
> 
> sorry it took a while, i was blocking on something i wasn't sure i wanted to include in this chapter. i ended up putting it in the next one. oopsies. also, we've been given a week off uni because of the COVID-19 virus so yay, more time to write i suppose. 
> 
> IMPORTANT PSA GUYS i am STILL in need of a beta. if anyone is interested to discuss the plot with me, help me out a bit, check for typos, and get the chapters in advance, hit me up on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/acropclis) or on tumblr [here](https://acropclis.tumblr.com/)
> 
> love y'all so much, thanks for all the cool feedback, it keeps me going! please leave a comment if you liked this, and tell me what you wanna see in future chapters!! i'm open to ideas!
> 
> see ya


	4. Pressure, IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pressure
> 
> /ˈprɛʃə/
> 
> noun
> 
> A burden of physical or mental distress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four, or the chapter that took so long because my wifi was shit.
> 
> tw: violence, thoughts of suicide

She was standing in the middle of darkness. Nothing was surrounding her, and she almost felt relief. 

She looked around, curious to see what this nightmare would entail. She had never been this conscious during a dream before, and it somewhat frightened her. She knew her family had a history of _seeing_ things– being seers, in other words, but she never thought it applied to her as well. She mostly saw her own misery after all, and had a few dreams where she was more lucid than one would be while sleeping. 

She spun slowly, trying to discern any shapes, anything in the inky night surrounding her, but her eyes were not adapting to the lack of light. Her heart's pace picked up slightly, but she took deep calming breaths. 

_You are just asleep. You are not locked in somewhere with no escape. You can simply wake up._

_Wake up._

She couldn't. Iciness shot through her veins and her heart hammered faster.

_She couldn't wake up._

Her feet produced an echo as she turned to look around her frantically, making her think she was in a cave, or somewhere just as hollow. Somewhere dark and damp, where feet would echo and a musky smell would repulse and yet entice her– the crypt? Was she in the crypt?

The even pounding of a heartbeat echoed in the otherwise silent void. Then, a thousand floating spheres appeared all around her, encircling her. Terror rooted her in place as she saw their lids part, shapeless blobs becoming eyes, the sickly, squelching noise of flesh separating making her skin crawl and bile rise up to her throat. She tried to run, to scream, but her muscles refused to respond to the shouting in her head.

In unison, their gazes slowly descended upon her, scrutinizing her, and she couldn't escape, couldn't _hide_ , because there was nowhere to hide. The endless darkness around her offered no comfort, no other shapes or entities other than the eyes around her.

She closed her eyes, breathing becoming more and more erratic, and _she wished herself deaf_ because the eyes were _blinking_ , and the unbearable squelching they made with each batting eyelid provoked nausea unknown to her before.

And then, silence. She opened her eyes reluctantly, and saw that the eyes had indeed stopped blinking, but instead were staring at—

"Daenerys," Aerys greeted her with a nod of his head, his pale lilac eyes boring through to her soul. The aged lines of his face emphasized the grim frown with which she was all too familiar.

She instinctively took a step back. This Aerys was dangerous. He was _mad_ and evil and—

She hugged herself, trying her hardest to get away, but her legs wouldn't move, like they were attached to boulders, and she found herself face to face with him.

With the face in the mirror. With the shadow she would always live in. With the smear that ruined their house. With her father.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


With herself.

"History has its eyes on you, Your Grace," he whispered, taking a step forward, then another, and another, until he was right in front of her.

His hand went up to her cheek, carefully caressing it like she was the most precious thing in the world, and cold sweat dampened her collar, her eyes erratically searching for some kind of escape because _she knew what was coming next._

His hand trailed from her cheek down, delicately brushing against her neck, leaving a trail of ice behind it. It _hurt_.

His hand slowly encircled her neck, and he started applying pressure, slowly, surely building up, and soon enough air had difficulty getting to her lungs, having her gasp in pain, still unable to move a muscle.

"Long may she reign."

—

She awoke with a start, and _she still couldn't breathe._

The thought her mind immediately formulated was _assassination attempt._ She willed her eyes to work, because she needed to _live_ (‘the realm needs you alive, gods, _I need you alive_ ,’ echoed Missandei’s voice from far away). Her vision finally focused, though the strain on her neck was becoming _too much_ , and her vision started tunneling in, but not before she saw a familiar head of silver hair above her. The blank, haziness of his eyes staring through her frightened her more than the clenching of his cold fingers around her throat.

 _Viserys_.

Time stopped. She swore she could see herself on the bed, Viserys straddling her chest, squeezing her neck with all the force he could muster.

She watched the scene, indifferent, two warring thoughts flitting through her mind.

She could let herself die. It would be easy, oh, so easy, to just _not fight_. Let him, in his delusion-riddled trance, end her miserable life. It was an open secret, after all, that he had violent tendencies.

Or, she could fight. She could overpower him without much trouble, even with him on top of her, and her body begging for air. He had weakened considerably over the course of these few months. His suicide attempt left him only a shell of who he was, physically and mentally.

She saw herself gasp, soft and panicked, also inaudible. _Almost. Almost there._

_“History has its eyes on you, Your Grace.”_

Pure instinct took over, as she flipped Viserys off her, and the bed. She herself landed on the ground too, and rose to her knees, taking in gasping breaths, relishing in the air her body desperately needed.

Panic settled in her chest like an old friend, sitting next to her at the dinner table. Familiar, almost comforting. Her hands shook, like usual, and her breathing became difficult, as usual, and she felt… _embraced_ by the familiarity of those mechanisms her body had adopted at some point in time. Painful, excruciating, yet in a moment like this, it felt like home.

The cold, horrifying situation dawned on her slowly, her mind struggling to make sense of what had just happened, making the symptoms of her old friend Panic ebb away.

_She had almost died._

_She had almost let herself die._

Her hand shakily touched her neck, and she bit her lip, pain radiating from her throat. She could practically _feel_ the bruises forming in ugly colors, the shape of her brother’s hand.

 _Her brother’s hand._ She had almost let him end her life. How could she do that to her brother? He had already gone through so much, and she was ready to add her own death to the list. What a magnificent sister she made.

The fact that what was about to happen bore a strong resemblance to something she wouldn’t dare name (‘suicide’, a voice whispered in her head), rattled her more than she would care to admit.

Wasn’t her brother deemed too unstable to inherit the throne _because he tried to end his own life?_

In other words, because of the same act she was willing to commit mere seconds ago?

_No, no, Viserys just… wasn’t himself, and he tried to hurt me. It was hard to react fast, is all. I wouldn’t have let him kill me._

_… I wouldn’t have, would I?_

A groan pulled her out of her head, yanking her from under the surface of a pool of darkness and cold she had become quite accustomed to, these past few months. She stood up, wobbly, using the bed as support. Reluctantly, afraid of what she was about to see, she turned to look at Viserys.

He was sitting up, looking more dazed than usual, but otherwise unharmed.

 _Good_. She didn’t want to spend another second in this room with him.

She hastily exited, not looking behind her once, out of resentment towards her brother, or out of terror at what she had almost done, she didn’t know.

Missandei, bless her heart, was still waiting outside the door, having dismissed the servants, rendering the hallway blissfully empty.

As soon as she closed the door behind her, Missandei was clinging to her arm, rubbing it with as much affection as one could put in a simple circular motion. She knew Daenerys was not very receptive to touch these days, least of all hugs, so these touches would have to do.

Daenerys felt immense gratitude and love for her friend flood her heart, and she smiled at her shakily.

Missandei returned the smile, all warmth and sunshine, before the warmth in her golden-brown eyes morphed into sheer horror.

“Daenerys, what—” she got slightly closer, shock writing itself all over her soft features.

_Oh, no._

“Dany, what _happened_?” She eyed the bruises on her neck like they were abominations, and Daenerys wondered why. They truly couldn’t make her any more horrible than she already was, right?

“Nothing important,” she dismissed, putting some distance between her and Missandei. If the gesture hurt her, Daenerys genuinely couldn’t tell. “How long was I in there?”

“No longer than a quarter of an hour,” Missandei whispered, her eyes never leaving Daenerys’ throat.

Daenerys shifted on her feet, her hand coming to cover her neck self-consciously.

_Why did it bring her so much shame?_

( _Because you were willing to kill yourself.)_

“He had an episode. I handled it,” she muttered finally, her gaze everywhere but on her friend. She couldn’t look her in the eye and lie. She respected and valued her way too much.

Missandei nodded absently, and took her hand, dragging her towards the royal chambers.

“No one can see this,” Missandei resolutely announced, and Daenerys noticed she had trouble actually looking at her.

_So, that is it, Missandei? Do I disgust you so? Or is it fear that I detect in your reluctant touch?_

Something inside of her broke at the thought, but as she did all things that break in her mind and her heart, she dismissed it, throwing it aside.

They finally arrived at the chambers Daenerys reluctantly called hers. Her parents’ old room.

She sat on the bed, Missandei rummaging through Daenerys’ closet and drawers, no doubt trying to find something to cover the bruising.

An uncomfortable, pregnant silence settled in between them, and Daenerys wondered how long Missandei would be able to ignore it before she finally exploded and yelled all the thoughts she kept hidden in her mind.

She wondered what she would say.

That she missed her best friend? That she didn’t recognize the person Daenerys has become? That the way she was letting days pass by, not actually living them, was hauntingly terrifying?

She let out a soft chuckle, making Missandei turn towards her, shocked confusion on her face.

“What?” she asked, her brows creasing further at the rare smile she received from the Queen.

“Nothing, my dearest. Except that my scarves are in the closet, not the drawers.”

Missandei reciprocated the smile with hesitation, made her way to the closet, and pulled out a red scarf from its confines.

Daenerys wrapped it around her neck loosely, trying not to worsen the throbbing pain in her throat, tucking it under the collar of her dress.

_I could get used to this look._

She almost smiled at herself in the mirror. She examined the face peering back at her looking for signs of Aerys. Her piercing violet eyes went from her nose, to her lips, to the faint spattering of freckles on her cheeks. The nap she had taken in Viserys’ room, despite being filled with nightmares, had lessened the darkening under her eyes. She looked… She looked alive. When was the last time she had felt remotely pretty? She couldn’t remember.

She was also surprised to feel somewhat… safe, with that scarf wrapped around her neck, hiding blues and purples inflicted by her own blood. She looked down at her long sleeves, them too hiding atrocities underneath, scars no one was privy to, not even Missy.

She tugged down on them further, in fear or as a force of habit, she didn’t know, and turned away from the mirror.

“I would like to get back to work,” she announced, and she could already hear Missandei’s complaints, could recite them in her sleep by now.

“Fine,” her counselor sighed, conceding, and Daenerys blinked in surprise.

Missandei stood up and got out of the room, no doubt making her way to Daenerys’ office.

 _‘You’re losing her,’_ that same treacherous voice whispered in her mind.

Her heart thudded painfully at the thought, but she swallowed it down, like she did everything, and followed Missandei out of the room.

The Martells were set to arrive in a few hours, the Starks following soon after, and Daenerys would be damned if she showed them anything but strength.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all, sup?
> 
> i hope you liked this chapter!
> 
> this wouldn't have been possible without the precious help of my beta Jhennel, so thank you so much, J!
> 
> leave a comment if you liked it!
> 
> contact me: on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/acropclis) or on tumblr [here](https://acropclis.tumblr.com/)
> 
> see ya


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